THE DOVES OF VENICE. I stood in the quiet piazza, Where come rude noises never; But the feet of children, the wings of doves, Are sounding on forever. And the cooing of their soft voices, And the touch of the rippling sea, And the ringing clock of the armèd knight, Came through the noon to me. While their necks with rainbow gleaming, And from every "coigne of vantage," They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth, I thought of thy saint, O Venice ! "I love thy birds, my Father dear, "For love is not for men only; To the tiniest little things Give room to nestle in our hearts; Give freedom to all wings! And the lovely, still piazza, Seemed with his presence blest, And I, and the children, and the doves, Partakers of his rest. LAURA WINTHROP JOHNSON. SONG OF THE DOVE. There sitteth a dove so white and fair, And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ, Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And unto the Father in heaven she bears And back she comes from heaven's gate, And brings that dove so mild From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak, A blessing for every child. Then, children, lift up a pious prayer, It hears whatever you say, That heavenly dove, so white and fair, That sits on the lily spray. FREDERIKA BREMER. WHAT THE QUAIL SAYS. High and shrill, day after day, Ginx (the little one, bold and bright, Sure that he understands aright) "He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!'" Calls the quail from the cornfield, Thick with stubble set; Misty rain-clouds floating by Hide the blue of the August sky. "What does he call now, loud and plain?” Pipes the quail from the fence-top, Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye, "What do I think he says? My dear, He says 'Do right! do right!"" MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. CHICK-A-DEE-DEE. The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door; The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor; Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree ; I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee. Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare; Each morning you'll see them go hopping around, Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree, Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold! Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed, Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head? Though cold grows the season you seem not to care, Though short are the days, and the nights are so long, The snowflakes are drifting round window and door, MRS. C. F. BERRY. THE LINNET. What is the happiest morning song x? The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free, The trees are not high enough, little bird; You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar, And with every turn yet more and more Your wonderful, ravishing music is heard. A crimson speck in the bright blue sky, Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow? ? Is not heaven within, when you carol so Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high? He answers nothing, but soars and sings; And sings, and mounts on shining wings. HARRIET E. PAINE: Bird Songs of New England. HEAR THE WOODLAND LINNET. Books! 't is a dull and endless strife: And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! Sweet is the love which Nature brings : Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art: Close up these barren leaves : Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. W. WORDSWORTH. |